


It's Cold (Yet No One Hears)

by thousandmonkeys



Series: Touken Week 2k14 [3]
Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: run on sentences ahoy, toukenweek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 06:49:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2572070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thousandmonkeys/pseuds/thousandmonkeys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So maybe, maybe, if we live life like there's nothing left for you out there but the cold sleet of snow and dust and ragged tears-- [[ Day 3 of Touken Week ]]</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Cold (Yet No One Hears)

They say that if you talk to somebody’s (a lover a sweetheart an unrequited burning bright star) picture at eight p.m. at the turn of the New Years, they can hear you no matter where they are; on top of the loneliest mountain the world, maybe; buried six feet under with a stake through their heart, maybe.

Or maybe that’s just a superstition that nobody follows. God knows there were more than enough of them. 

Or maybe—

 She sighed, a puff of breath condensing into frost the moment it left her mouth, disappearing over her flat’s balcony. “Maybe that rule only applies to dead people, but hell. It’s not like you’ve ever been the most conventional, have you?” she said, letting the words slip out like the ragged edge of a ghost’s shawl.

Wind buffeted her face, teasing locks of dark hair out of their ponytail, sending them in twisting in a way they’d never been able to since the last time she could fly.

Flying; another thing he’d taken away; god! How was it possible that somebody could just waltz in, blunder through, burn away the dullness of everyday life like some flashing fire-brand, or maybe with the radiance of the thousand million billion prismatic fireworks that were exploding somewhere over Tokyo, or maybe like the warm homey glow of the  _kotatsu_ , a lover welcoming you home after a thousand days at work and the lethargy of the day slipping away as the warmth of a coffee shop wrapped itself around you like a hand-knit cardigan.

Yet here she was.

The exact opposite of  _warm_ , really. No matter how modern Tokyo got, the central heating was an  _ass_ ; and whoever planned the structure of the flats had clearly never studies wind current, if they thought putting a flat right square in the middle of two skyscrapers was a stroke of design genius.

Who decided when New Years  _should_ be anyways? If people wanted a new beginning…well, the only New Beginning that Touka could associate with New Years was Ayato slouching out of the door for the last time, for her mother’s still-cooling cooking sitting untouched on the kitchen sill as her father sat staring in a corner.

If  _he_ was such a source of warmth, why wasn’t he  _here_?

God, it was cold. 

Like every single year. 

She hated, hated,  _hated_ it.

Turning sharply, she closed the door with a slam, the panels sliding shut in a creaking protest against a wind that tried its best to wind its way in. In the din of metal against metal, her words were lost to the any eavesdropper; maybe a mouse that tried to hide from the howling sleet outside, the polar opposite of New Years’ spirit. 

Too bad.

She knew what they were.

And more than ever, she knew why her precious asshole of a brother had called her  _weak_ , the edges of his mouth curling up in a sneer she’d seen settle in line-by-line on his face, misguided love throwing him in the path of every single danger he’d come across.

Her shoulder gave a protesting creak as she leaned against the cold glass, eyes glassily staring at the dancing lights of the New Year’s firewords. Even though there were no mirrors in the sparse apartment, she knew it was that self-same smile.

Looks like it ran in the family.

Really though. No matter how good Touka was at deluding herself, at ignoring the blatantly obvious right in front of her, she couldn’t deny the edge of anger-hope-desperation-regret— 

“What did you want out of me? A bloody  _confession_?” she snapped, face twisted in a snarl, words biting at the thin air. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, angst bunny finally showed up after the fluff of the previous two ficlets. It's short, it's lame, but I like it for how short it is.


End file.
